


the garden of eden

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Child Marriage, F/M, Internal Monologue, Internalized Misogyny, Season 2, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: we sung for salvation as they burned//eden's late night thoughts





	the garden of eden

On the last day of school, they burned my books.

 

It was hot and so they gave us a day of reading, an easy last day, and it kept us quiet too, for the teachers kept leaving to stand in their little office between the classrooms and stare at something. Some girls took the crayons and coloured, but I read. I think I was good at it. It had pictures, mostly, but in black type beneath them, it had words.  _ Adam,  _ it had said.  _ Eve.  _ I put my fingers on the figures, covered modestly in leaves.  _ Snake,  _ it read, and I touched it too.  _ Garden. Eden.  _ It was my favourite book. I held it between my chubby hands even when the sirens went off, and we grabbed our school bags and walked to the quadrangle. I was good at lining up, the Aunts always said so. They were ladies who helped at our school. They helped the teachers, and sometimes even told them off, and we would all laugh.

 

They stood tall now, and only then did I realise only the girls had been asked along. That was normal. The boys would go to sports, and we would learn to sew, or the boys would do mathematics and we would sing. Important men said we were one of the best elementary schools in the county, and the most Godly. That made me feel good. We would go and pray and sing hymns each morning, and I collected stickers that I got for memorising prayers or reading aloud His word. We sat in the quadrangle with the Aunts, and they told us this was no more. It was sinful - He did not want women to read, for it would burden their minds, it would distract them. I cried as they took the little book with my name on it away, and they burned it in a small pit, and we sung for salvation as they burned. The world was to become a better place for it, they said. We were the first school to leave the Before and reach Gilead.

 

I remember the first time I ever saw a Wife.

 

At church, and two women came in, holding their husbands’ arms, dress in teal from neck to toe. Their feet were light on the floor, their hair was tucked beneath matching hairnets, and their husbands wore long tails. Mother wiggled in her seat to get a better look at them. It was strange. They were pretty, but I didn’t realise at the time what it meant. Mother changed her style often; I just thought it was the same. Soon she bought a grey dress, and covered her hair, and dressed me and my sisters the same. There were four of us, blessed be. No sons, but four daughters. My mother was smiled upon by God himself. 

 

We are the most lucky.

 

I remember the first time I saw Serena Joy. On a box in the corner of our room. I do not recall its name, but we gathered around it in the evening, as if it might tell us something. I believe I saw her face on it. She looked like a princess. I wanted to be her. We all argued. My sister and I pushed and shoved, so sinfully, wanting to play games. We knew of the way the world would be, soon enough. When things were right, as father said. One of us would be the Wife, and one the Handmaid, and one the Martha and one the Aunt. Whomever was the Handmaid would stuff a pillow up her dress. The Wife was always Serena Joy. That was always her name; my name, sometimes. We played it even after the big men in black jackets came to take the box away. 

 

My name is Eden. I am the second eldest. My elder sister is Prudence, and my younger sisters Faith and Grace. I am proud of my name. It makes me think of gardens, like Mrs. Waterford’s blessed one, and of flowers. I think I ought to build my husband a garden, for he seems so sombre. I must try harder to please him. I wish I was a garden myself, with all the beauty and enchantment. I am not beautiful. That is good; it makes me less likely to fall prey to sinfulness. 

 

I must be thankful. 

 

He does not like me. I am told he is not a gender traitor, but he will not engage in our duties, and so I must pray for him. I go on my knees and pray as often as I can. I pray that I may be pleasing to his eye, that I may learn to make his favourite foods, that we may make a child. I pray that I am not discovered. I keep it hidden. They tell me Prudence is ill, but she shall not die, I know it. She shall live forever in His heart. I am not afraid of dying; they tell me in the Before, women did not have children for fear of death. I should be blessed to die bringing a new life into the world. I have told my husband as much, but he says I am too young. I think he would have preferred Prudence, for she is seventeen, and she would have been his bride if she were not sick. 

 

Sometimes I am afraid, I confess, though I know He will not bring harm upon me unduly. I am afraid They will rise up again. I am afraid They will take over, that They may stamp out the Lord. Mother always told us stories of the Before, when They tried to ban prayer, and destroyed the churches, when They blasphemed and declared themselves superior, sinning dreadfully. I know that we all sin, but They did not repent. They were not anguished by their betrayal of Him. I am afraid that such a time will come again.

 

I am afraid that Mrs. Waterford does not like me. That no soul in this house does. I worry that Mrs. Waterford does not think me worthy of living here. I worry that she is right in thinking so. She is kind to me and I am terrified that she may see beneath me, that she may see into my heart and find it full of words. I only wish to be like her. I know, in the Before, she wrote a book. I want to understand His word, I want to examine it with my own eyes. I wish I could ask why she gave it up. Why they all did. Pleasing Him is about sacrifice, but I do not see why we must sacrifice words when our husbands do not. That is not to say all people deserve His word, but if any women do, it is us. Wives and Daughters. It sends me giddy, knowing that I and Mrs. Waterford are both Wives, even if she is a true Wife and I an Econowife. He created opportunities for all, and sometimes in the darkest hours, I imagine my daughter or granddaughter wearing blue.

 

Mrs. Waterford has such a pretty garden, and I hope she may invite me inside. She lets the handmaid in there, Offred, and I think if I get with child, she will allow me inside too. I would not ask for very much; only that I might water the plants and touch their leaves. I do not want to get out of practise. My husband says nothing of it, but I know men sometimes may get promotions to become Commanders, and then I could have my own garden, for my children to play in. I shall grow a great many plants and herbs and I will learn to make meals that my husband likes, until we get a Martha. I hope that our Martha will not be like Rita, for she is snappish and sweeps me away like she does the dirt Offred walks in.

 

One day, mayhaps, someone will think that Mrs. Blaine has such a pretty garden, and hope that I should invite them inside. It will be  _ mine _ , and my garden will be good, and Godly and fruitful and by then perhaps our world will be as well.

 

Maybe then, I will read His word aloud.


End file.
